poetomachia

head is spinning, thoughts are alive
drapery flapping in the wind
no breeze at all
make a crease, no fold
a simple cut by which to pass
are these thoughts beneficial?
does it cool and ease or twisting curtain?

arms flailing, no dance in this space
while shadows shifting, stretching grotesque
furled brows in consternated strain to
comprehend. we don’t get to understand
a word to the heart. a shadow on the sun.